The Long Shot Page 3

  The buzzing of her cell phone interrupted her thoughts. The caller display showed Tricia’s name, and she smiled as she answered.

  “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

  Tricia laughed. “Ha ha. I have been known to stay up past ten on a school night, you know. Sometimes even eleven!”

  Adrienne chuckled at the reference to school night. Tricia was an associate professor at NYU. “So how are you?”

  “Good. This summer semester’s already kicking my ass, but I’m still alive.”

  “Tough class?”

  “Meh. More like disinterested. Which makes no sense when they’ve all paid so much to get here. Feels like I’ve been talking to a blank wall most days.”

  “Are they just overwhelmed? I mean, they’re all from overseas, so…”

  “Yeah, maybe that’s all it is. Don’t worry, I’ll think of something to light them up.”

  “I don’t doubt that.”

  Tricia’s laugh was soft. “So how about you?”

  One of the things Adrienne loved most about Tricia was her refusal to sugarcoat things. Everyone else who had asked Adrienne that question for the last twelve months had done so with that “oh, poor you” inflection in their tone. Like they were afraid to actually ask in case Adrienne told them the truth they didn’t want to hear—that she was still angry and bitter and upset. Tricia just asked her normally, like she would with anyone else she knew, anyone who hadn’t had their heart ripped to shreds last year.

  “I’m pretty good.” She glanced around the kitchen. “I’m sick of this apartment, I finally realized.”

  “Yay!”

  “I know. You’ve never liked it.”

  “No, but I also get why you took it. Still, I’m thrilled you’ve finally realized the beige cave of doom is not for you. Thank God.”

  Adrienne laughed out loud. “Well, I’m not actually going to do anything about it yet, so don’t be holding a party. I’m hopefully about to go on the road for a few weeks, so I may as well leave it here with all my belongings until I get back.”

  “But when you get back, you’ll look for something else? Please? Promise?”

  “I will. I promise.”

  “I’m fist pumping right now. And jigging.”

  “And you can jig with the best of them.”

  “I can.” There was a pause, then Tricia’s voice turned serious. “You sound good. Really good.”

  Adrienne’s heart skipped a beat, then settled again. “I…am. Work is good. This project is finally getting going, hence me leaving town, and Daniel—”

  “The snaky one?”

  “Yes, the snaky one.” Adrienne grinned. “Well, he actually came up with a brilliant addition to it that I hope I can pull off.”

  “Ooh, I’m intrigued. Tell me more. This is the women’s golf documentary, yes?”

  “Yes. So far I’ve just had a crew out gathering film of the first two majors of the year. You know we’re doing a kind of life-in-a-year of the women’s majors, yes?”

  “Yeah, I remember. Not focusing on any player in particular but more the tournaments themselves, why they’re so special to the players, et cetera.”

  “Wow, you really do listen to me sometimes.”

  “Oh, hardy har.” Tricia snorted. “Go on, what’s this extra part?”

  “Well, did you hear Morgan Spencer failed again this past weekend? Missed a putt to go into a playoff for the Women’s US Open, so that’s three majors in a row she’s blown it on the last hole.”

  “Hm, I might have caught a headline about that in today’s sports pages. Wow, that’s got to hurt.”

  “Well, that’s the thing. I saw a tape of her press conference, and she didn’t look bothered at all. I mean, I know they call her Ice, and she’s got this reputation for being so cool out there, but I would have thought there would be some show of emotion after that loss. But no, nothing. It was almost like she was…bored by it all.”

  “Okay, but everyone reacts to disappointment and loss in different ways, right? Especially people in the public eye with her kind of background.”

  “True, but… Anyway, that’s Daniel’s idea, and I think it’s worth doing.”

  “What idea?”

  “Make Spencer the focus of the series. The woman who can’t seem to win a major, talking about the majors, talking about her dad’s six wins, yada yada yada. We’ll couple that with recent winners of majors on the women’s tour, get their take on what it meant for them to win one. And who knows, while we’re tracking Spencer, maybe she’ll actually win one at last, and we get to show it.”

  “And she’s up for this?” Tricia sounded dubious, and for some reason it rankled with Adrienne.

  “Well, she doesn’t know yet. I’m reaching out to her manager tomorrow, but I can’t see why she wouldn’t be. It’s a great story.”

  “I guess…”

  “What?”

  “Nothing, ignore me.”

  “No, tell me!”

  “I don’t know, Addy. There’s just something about it not sitting right with me.”

  “Oh.”

  “You don’t think it kind of invades her privacy a little? Like, maybe she wouldn’t want this kind of exposure or attention?”

  “She’s a top sportswoman. They get this kind of attention all the time.”

  Tricia was silent for a while. Then she said, her voice quiet and concerned, “Just don’t forget she’s a person too. I know this is important to you and your career and portfolio. But she’s a person with feelings, even if she is in the public eye.”

  Adrienne bristled, her stomach tight with tension. “I’m not completely heartless, you know!”

  “I know, I know! That’s not what I was saying. It’s just…” Tricia sighed. “Since Paula stomped all over your heart, you’ve been kinda…cool. Aloof. I’m just saying, just because you’re still feeling numb about everything, don’t let that get in the way of other stuff.”

  The truth in Tricia’s words was hard to deny, so she didn’t bother trying. “Okay. Understood.”

  “I love you. You know that, right?”

  “I do.” Adrienne exhaled slowly. “Look, it’s getting late. I’d better get some sleep. Say hi to David for me.”

  “I will. And hey, good luck with the project. I hope it all works out.”

  “Thanks. I’ll call whenever I can, but you know how these things go.”

  Tricia’s laugh was gentle. “I do. Don’t worry. If I think it’s been too long between calls, I’ll bombard you with text messages until you have no choice but to contact me to shut me up.”

  Adrienne rolled her eyes. “Yes, that sounds exactly the sort of thing you’d do.”

  Tricia was still laughing as she said good-bye and hung up.

  The alarm startled Adrienne awake at six. She’d been in a deeper sleep than she would have imagined, given how unsettled she was when she’d got into bed the night before. The call with Tricia had played on her mind as she’d gone through her going-to-bed routine, in particular Tricia’s comment about her being aloof and cool.

  As she moisturized after her shower, she did something rare: She actually looked at her own body. Since Paula had left her for someone so much younger, she’d avoided looking at herself too closely, afraid of what she’d see.

  Objectively, it wasn’t that bad, was it? Her face was reasonably smooth and soft, only a few wrinkles around her eyes and the corners of her mouth really giving her age away. Her naturally light-brown skin helped, of course, and for the thousandth time she thanked her mother for her French-Moroccan genes.

  Her hair was…well, just her hair. It never grew the way she wanted it to and needed daily taming with a variety of products. There was a little grey, and it had been tempting—very tempting—to cover that up after Paula left. Adrienne became obsessed for
a short time with the age of Paula’s new partner and doing her utmost to make herself look as young as possible. Her mind had concluded—with twisted logic, she now realized—that if she made herself look younger, then Paula would want her again and come back.

  Her glance swept downward, albeit briefly. Just long enough to take in a body that was…okay. Her breasts were still pretty firm and not yet pointing at her feet, which was a relief. Her overall shape wasn’t, obviously, as trim and tight as it had been twenty years ago, but she could live with it.

  Would anyone find this attractive enough to want to make love to it? Would she want anyone to make love to it?

  The thought still didn’t appeal, but she could also acknowledge that her hurt was dissipating over time. Just like everyone said it would. The only times it still really stuck like a knife in her belly was when someone in her social circle—the social circle she had shared with Paula until recently—let slip something about Paula and that woman being seen out and about. It might have been Adrienne’s imagination—Tricia kept telling her it was, anyway—but she thought such little slips were intentional. That the comments always held an unspoken “Oh, and she’s gorgeous, and hasn’t Paula done well for herself, trading you in for something younger and brighter and perkier?”

  Adrienne shook out the tightness that had enveloped her body and stepped into the bedroom to dress. Time to start the day. The day, when hopefully she’d be able to work her charm on Morgan Spencer’s manager and give her already good project a boost up into a great project.

  She walked into the office an hour later, feeling determined to make the most of her day.

  Jenny said nothing as she walked past her desk but came trotting in two minutes later with Adrienne’s morning coffee and a plate holding a croissant and a small cup of fruit salad.

  “Thank you, Jenny.”

  “So what’s the plan for this morning?” Jenny stood expectantly in front of Adrienne’s desk, her hands clasped behind her back. Her spiky hair was today tipped with bright purple, and the shirt she wore matched the color.

  “Nice hair.” Adrienne smirked, and Jenny grinned. “Okay, this morning, we’re aiming big.” She scribbled on a Post-It note and handed it over to the puzzled-looking Jenny. “Get me the number for this guy.”

  Jenny took the piece of paper and glanced at it. “Who is he?”

  Adrienne smiled, her skin buzzing with the anticipation of what the day might bring. “That’s Morgan Spencer’s manager.”

  “Morgan…” Jenny bit her lip. “You want Morgan Spencer for the doc, don’t you?”

  “Yep.”

  Jenny grinned widely. “Nice.” She exited Adrienne’s office at speed. Twenty minutes later, she returned. “I may have just sold my first child, but here it is. He’s expecting your call this morning.”

  Adrienne took the proffered piece of paper. “I knew I could count on you.”

  Jenny tilted her head. “You could easily have done this yourself, couldn’t you?”

  “I could. But you need your name out there too, and as long as you weren’t unbelievably cheeky or rude, you probably just made a new ally.”

  “I wasn’t. And I did. Turns out his executive assistant went to the same college as me, although he graduated a couple years before me.”

  Adrienne nodded. “Remember, it’s not—”

  “What you know. It’s who you know.” Jenny beamed. “I get it. Thanks.”

  “Good. Now leave me in peace so I can set this up.”

  Jenny mock saluted and dashed out of the room, shutting the door behind her.

  God, she’ll wear me out before I’ve got her fully trained. But it’ll be worth it.

  Inhaling deeply, Adrienne sat up straighter in her chair and reached for the phone.

  “Hi,” she said. “This is Adrienne Wyatt calling for Hilton Stewart.”

  “One moment, please, Ms. Wyatt.”

  Silently thanking Jenny for her prep, Adrienne patiently waited for Hilton to join the call.

  “Ms. Wyatt,” he said, his voice a little nasally in a fashion that told her it was always that way and not due to him having a cold or the flu.

  “Please, call me Adrienne,” she said. “And thank you for taking my call, Mr. Stewart.”

  “That’s no problem. And please, call me Hilton. So what can I do for you?”

  “Well, I think it’s more a case of what we can do for each other, Hilton,” Adrienne began smoothly. “As you know, I work for TC Productions, and we’re currently making a documentary, commissioned by ESPN, about the women’s majors this year.”

  “Yes, I definitely heard something about that happening.” There was a chuckle in his tone.

  “Of course. So I have a proposal for you and your client Morgan Spencer, which I think will only increase her already high profile and probably improve her ability to maintain or even improve on her current sponsorship position.” It was bold, but it was how she felt after pulling herself out of her introspection at the start of her day, and she knew she could sell it.

  There was a slight pause. “Hm, okay, I’m listening.”

  And hooked, Adrienne thought with a triumphant smile.

  Chapter 3

  Jab, jab, upper cut.

  Body punches—one, two, three, then right hook.

  The punchbag swung crazily on its chain. Morgan blinked the sweat out of her eyes before delivering a final one-two to the center of the bag. She stepped back, her tired arms dropping to her sides.

  A door slammed somewhere behind her, and she sighed. Her private time was over. She’d had no trouble waking early to get into the hotel’s fitness suite before six so that she was its only occupant; she’d hardly slept all night. Anger and hurt had kept her brain wide awake—at one point, she’d even been tempted to drive back out to her parents’ house and have it out with her father. Common sense had eventually prevailed and kept her tucked beneath the sheets even as her body tossed and turned.

  She hadn’t, after all that she’d said to her mom, called Jack yet. A quick text message to say “Congrats, Big Bro” had gone unanswered, but that was fine with Morgan. Good for him, going out to celebrate the win. She hoped he had an it-was-so-worth-it hangover this morning.

  Grinning at the thought, she peeled off the gloves, stowed them on the equipment rack, and then picked up her water bottle and drained it. The shower she stepped into five minutes later was a welcome relief from her workout, which had perhaps been slightly more strenuous than usual. It was amazing what frustration could make a woman do.

  She ate a light breakfast in her room before checking out and loading up the rental car. Having convinced her sponsors to give her twenty-four hours of freedom before she needed to be on a plane for the next tournament, she made the most of the drive back to the airport. Her flight wasn’t until three, so she meandered more backroads, drifting through small towns with cute centers where everyone seemed to know each other as they passed on the street. She’d never had “real” life like that. Growing up in her dad’s shadow had meant that nothing was normal or what she imagined normal to be.

  Jeez, you’re getting maudlin in your old age.

  Smiling ruefully at herself, she swung the car onto the interstate, the one stretch of highway she had to drive in order to get to the airport. With reluctance, some twenty minutes later, she pulled the car into its allotted slot in the parking lot. A porter loaded up a trolley for her, and soon she was checked in, her bags trundling down the belt, her carry-on slung over her shoulder.

  The flight out to the West Coast was much the same as any other flight she took most weeks: long and boring, even in business class. And then there she was, checking in to yet another hotel after the sponsor’s car had collected her from LAX. At least this room had a view and a balcony that overlooked the hotel’s extensive pool area.

  She flopped down on
the bed, pulled her phone from her pocket, and dialed her brother.

  “Hey, Sis!”

  He sounded hoarse, and she grinned. “Heavy night?”

  Jack chuckled. “Yeah, something like that.”

  “Congrats. I haven’t seen any of it yet, but I bet you were awesome.”

  “I was. Obviously.” He cleared his throat. “Bummed for you.”

  “Meh. You win some, you lose some.”

  “Yeah, but…”

  “I know.”

  “Did you still go to the folks’ after?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Regret it?”

  “Hell yeah.”

  They both laughed, but it sounded hollow.

  “Sorry. I wish he was—”

  “Hey, nothing for you to apologize for. He is who he is. Nothing any of us can do to change that.”

  She didn’t add what she wanted to add, which was that Jack could actually try harder on that score, in her humble opinion. Whenever they were together as a family, and her father talked nonstop about Jack and his success, her brother never thought to jump in and deflect some of that attention to Morgan. Usually, her mother pulled that heavy load alone. However, there was no point getting into that now and definitely not on the phone.

  “How was Mom?” Jack asked after a moment.

  “Good. Really good. Made me tuna casserole.”

  “Hah, of course she did! Man, I miss her tuna casserole.”

  “Then you should get home more. You know she’d love that.”

  “I know, but it’s so hard to find time. This tour’s a killer, especially if I want to push for the one hundred.”

  Especially for a guy who was thirty-three already and up against the much younger and fitter men, those new faces that joined the tour almost every week.